Snowed In
by HollidayMourner
Summary: America invites his family on a trip to the mountains for the weekend. When he doesn't check the weather and prepare accordingly, they're all trapped inside by a snowstorm with nothing but each other to entertain themselves. Will their patience with one another finally wear thin, or will this lead to family bonding? Human names used. Please R&R. Disclaimer: I do NOT own Hetalia.
1. Chapter 1: The Hero's Plan

**A/N: It's been a while since I've written anything but one-shots, so here's my second attempt at a short story. My first attempt was my story "A Secret Unfurls," and I'm proud of that, no matter how rushed and poorly-written it was. But anyway, I came up with this idea while I was laying in bed, under the covers, shivering my butt off and wishing I had someone to cuddle with. Originally, this was going to be a one-shot, but I didn't feel like writing a super long one-shot. So, it's a short story! :D**

**Anyway, enjoy the first chapter, and let me know what you think in a review. :)**

Matthew's grip on the phone tightened as he listened to his southern neighbor/older brother ramble on about his latest "super awesome heroic plan." The telephone cord was wrapped so tight around Matthew's index finger that he might have feared cutting off the circulation if it weren't for his rapidly-increasing horror distracting him from the pain. Now, Matthew loved his brother and would always support his strange and usually-off-the-wall plans, but this was just too much. It wasn't a good idea. Not in the least.

"Alfred, I don't think..." Matthew began uncertainly, attempting to get his brother's attention so he could maybe point out all the flaws he saw with Alfred's "super awesome heroic plan." Or at least suggest something a little less... stupid.

Alfred, however, ignored him completely (as always) and continued on, saying, "No, dude, it'll totally work. It'll be so relaxing, and we'll have so much fun that Arthur and Francis won't even remember this silly centuries-old feud thing. It's brilliant! Told you I was a genius!"

Matthew bit back a defeated sigh. _If only it were that easy..._ he thought as he continued listening to Alfred babble. His older brother talked about skiing and snowboarding and hot chocolate by the fire. It all sounded so amazing to Matthew, even the part about roasting marshmallows and playing charades, a game he always lost. He just failed to see how Arthur and Francis could put aside their differences for even one small weekend.

"So, you're gonna call Francis and tell him, right?" Alfred barked into the phone.

Matthew flinched at the volume of his brother's voice, but nodded solemnly all the same, having abandoned his half-hearted attempt to dissuade Alfred from going through with his plan. "I'll let him know, Al..."

Either Alfred didn't catch the defeated tone in his brother's voice, or he didn't care. He whooped and yelled in excitement on the other end of the line. "Thanks bunches, Mattie. Don't forget - Friday at 3:00. Everyone meets at my house."

Matthew stammered out an affirmative as he heard the line click dead. He dialed Francis's number and leaned against the kitchen counter, silently hoping that his old caregiver didn't answer. He wouldn't be able to tell the man about the trip if he never answered the phone, after all.

Matthew's hopes were quickly crushed, however, as he heard Francis's breathy, "Bonjour, mon cher."

"B-bonjour," Matthew greeted. He mentally cursed himself for his nervous stuttering as he wound the telephone cord around his finger again, worrying his bottom lip.

Francis mistook Matthew's nervous tone for something else, however, and instantly switched to the over-protective man Matthew had grown up with. "Is there something wrong, Matthew? Are you alright?"

The protectiveness and concern in Francis's tone calmed Matthew, but only a little. "Well... well you see..." Matthew began, knowing he was saying the wrong thing before the words had even left his mouth. His worries were confirmed when he heard the soft growl behind Francis's next words.

"Is that barbaric, lumbering Russian giant stalking you again? Threatening and harassing you? I'll make him pay, I swear on my life, mon cher, I will. Just say the word."

The familiar statement calmed Matthew even more, making it possible for him to ignore the violent words and focus instead on the emotion and protectiveness behind the words themselves. Matthew knew that even if Ivan had been stalking him and threatening him again that Francis wouldn't really do anything; he'd always been terrified of the cold, large man, and his words were no more than empty threats.

Holding back a chuckle, Matthew grinned as he said, "No, that's not it. It's Alfred, actually. He has some silly family weekend trip planned and he wants all of us to be there."

Silence. Then, much to both Matthew's delight _and_ horror, Francis laughed. It wasn't the teasing, mocking laughter that Matthew had expected, though. It was a pleasant, from-the-belly kind of laugh that Matthew knew Francis only used when he was told a particularly raunchy or hilarious joke.

Matthew knew that wasn't a good sign for Alfred's plan.

"Francis?" Matthew asked once the other man had calmed down. He could hear the labored breathing on the other end of the line.

"When he says 'family trip,' I'm assuming he plans to invite Arthur as well?" The laughter and the teasing tone were gone, replaced by an edge as sharp as a blade.

Matthew gulped. He could feel his stutter returning but fought to keep it under control as he struggled to salvage Alfred's plan. "W-w-well, that's what he w-was planning. B-but I d-don't think Arthur w-will be int-t-terested in spending a whole w-weekend with y-you anyw-way."

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. Matthew could hear his heart pounding in his chest, the blood rushing through his veins. His skin felt as if it were on fire, as if the act of speaking so boldly had ignited him. However, he didn't know yet if the new-found fire was a blessing or a curse, and chose to ignore it as best he could.

"I'm going." Francis's voice was low, his speech slow and deliberate as he thought about his words, and most likely the consequences for saying them.

Matthew squeaked. "What? Going?"

"On the family trip," Francis explained shortly. His words were quiet and steady, but dangerous. Matthew could hear the resentment and the hatred boiling behind the calm of his words, and it sent a shiver of foreboding down his spine.

"You will?" Matthew could barely believe it. His voice was soft, and he knew Francis had had to strain to hear what he'd said. He'd expected the other man to laugh and decline the offer, forcing Matthew to beg on Alfred's behave. He'd expected insults and curses, maybe even threats. He had never expected Francis to agree right off the bat, with no begging or bribing involved, even if he _was_ struggling to control his temper behind his soft words and the slow, careful structuring of his sentences.

Matthew knew then that he had made a mistake in mentioning the trip at all. He should have just lied to Alfred and told him that Francis had refused to spend a weekend with his oldest rival. But Matthew knew he could never do that - could never lie to anyone, let alone someone he cared for. And because of that, this coming weekend was going to be Hell.

"I won't enjoy it, but I'm willing to be the bigger man and hold my tongue," Francis agreed. "Now, tell me mon cher, what is this little trip that Alfred has planned?"


	2. Chapter 2: Friday Afternoon

**A/N: Here is the second chapter to my newest short story Snowed In. This is also where the "humor" portion of the genre is supposed to come in. I'm not too sure how good of a job I did on it, though, since humor isn't really one of my strong points, so don't be shy and drop me a review to let me know what you think. :)**

Alfred had convinced Arthur to stay at his place for the rest of the week to ease the strain on his wallet. Grudgingly (because, for once in his life, Alfred _did_ have a point about Arthur wasting his money if he was going to be staying in America anyway), Arthur agreed, but he was soon regretting that decision. By the time Friday rolled around, Arthur was one step away from murder.

"Alfred for the _last time_: I am _not_ going to eat those disgusting meat patties you call food!" Arthur held up his hands, blocking the dripping, grease-laden hamburger from being shoved in his face. He stumbled backwards out of the kitchen, bumping into chairs and walls as he tried to avoid the dirty clothes and games that littered the floor.

"Arthur, you're not having fun, are you?" Alfred asked, pouting as he munched on the rejected hamburger.

Arthur uncovered his face when he felt his knees bump against the arm of the couch. A pair of dirty jeans thrown over the arm of the couch brushed against his rear end. A heavy scowl settled on his face as he flicked the jeans away from him. "No, I am most certainly _not_ having fun, you bloody git. You keep trying to shove pure cholesterol and fat down my throat, all you want to do is play those silly shooting games, and no matter how many times I clean up after you, your clothes and garbage are still all over the house! How can you live in this bloody mess?!" Arthur glowered at the mess he was speaking, his gaze flickering between the dirty clothes and the video game cases thrown across the floor.

From across the room, Alfred chuckled. "That's part of my game, Artie," he beamed, smiling with a mouthful of hamburger. "Besides, the house _is_ clean, as far as I'm concerned."

Arthur could practically feel his blood pressure rising as his cheeks burned with anger. "This is not clean, you git! This is filthy! It's like you're living with a bunch of animals." Arthur's scowl remained on his face as he lifted his gaze to Alfred, disgusted with the filth on the floor.

"It may not be _your_ kind of clean, but it's _my_ kind of clean. And I'm comfortable with that," Alfred demanded as he finished off his burger.

Arthur gaped, his hands sweeping out to the sides to indicate the mess. "This is not clean! Not in the slightest!"

Alfred laughed at Arthur's bewildered expression, walking across the room to a game chair that was piled high with clothes (both dirty and clean). "I know where everything is - therefore, it's clean," Alfred explained as he reached behind the pile of clothes and pulled out a thick book. Opening the book, he scooted his glasses down the tip of his nose and studied the words in the book intensely. Then Alfred stuck a finger in the air and closed the book with a snap before dropping it back on to the game chair. "According to that book, 'clean' means being able to find something quickly. So." Alfred beamed at Arthur as he slid his glasses back into place on the bridge of his nose.

Arthur's eyebrow twitched. _How can someone be so..._ he thought, clenching his hands into fists. He was at a loss for words trying to describe the idiot standing before him. "For one," Arthur began slowly, "that wasn't even a dictionary. And for two, that's not the bloody definition!" His voice rose in volume and his words tumbled past his lips until he was yelling at Alfred. The fists clenched at his sides shook with rage.

"But that's _my_ definition."

_Oh, the __audacity_... "That is the _stupidest_ thing I have ever - " Arthur was cut off as the two men heard a car door slam from outside.

"Here they are!" Alfred exclaimed excitedly, leaping towards the door.

Arthur's eyes followed him suspiciously. "'They'?" he asked, his voice low and angry.

Before Alfred could yank the door off its hinges in an attempt to greet the newcomer and welcome them inside, there was a timid knock at the door. Arthur could feel the anger draining from him; now that Matthew was here, all Alfred's attention would be focused on him. Arthur could finally relax without Alfred bothering him every two minutes.

But then the door opened, and that dreamed shattered.

Standing behind Matthew, with his nose in the air as if he were too good for his current company, was Francis Bonnefoy. Arthur felt his rage flare up again, but he didn't know who he was more angry with, or who deserved his rage more.

Alfred - for not telling Arthur that Francis would be tagging along for the trip?

Matthew - for allowing Francis to come with him in the first place?

Or Francis - for even daring to think that his presence was appreciated, or even wanted?

Arthur's glare flickered between the three men as they all gathered inside the living room. When his gaze landed on Alfred, the younger man acted as if he didn't notice Arthur was even in the room as he bounced around Matthew and Francis, talking animatedly and collecting their luggage. For all Arthur knew, Alfred really _didn't_ remember that he was there.

Matthew avoided meeting Arthur's gaze as he flinched away. Arthur felt a flash of sick satisfaction rise in his chest. _At least he has the mind to feel guilty about bringing that frog here,_ he thought sourly. But as soon as that thought had entered his mind, regret bubbled up inside him. It wasn't Matthew's fault that he didn't have a backbone and enough courage to tell anyone no. Arthur made a mental note to apologize to the soft-spoken Canadian later.

Arthur turned his glare to Francis, who returned it coldly. The air between them crackled with electricity.

Finally noticing that Alfred and Matthew were standing away, exchanging worried glances as they observed the scene before them, Arthur attempted to lessen the intensity of his glare. With his nose in the air, mirroring Francis, Arthur muttered one word, dripping with all the venom he had seeped from his glare:

"Francis."

Francis tilted his head, staring down his nose at Arthur. He took a step forward. "Your dear Alfred wants us all to have a good time this weekend. At first, I thought he had finally lost it, but then I realized that he may have been on to something; it's been a while, Arthur. I'm willing to try to get along this weekend, for both Alfred's sake and Matthew's. Are you?" He extended his hand.

The challenging tone in Francis's voice sparked a wildfire of rage inside Arthur. He clenched his fists and set his jaw, biting down on the inside of his cheek as he glared down at the proffered hand. Inside his head, a debate was going on: slap the hand away and attack the man _attached_ to the hand, or accept his challenge and prove he was the bigger man? _Bigger man my arse,_ he thought bitterly. With his favor leaning heavily towards attacking the Frenchman, he finally caught a glimpse at Alfred's and Matthew's expressions: one hopeful, and one terrified.

Sighing in defeat, Arthur extended his hand and gripped Francis's tightly. "I'll try, frog, but I can't make any promises."


	3. Chapter 3: Arrival

**A/N: ****It might take me a little longer to get these chapters written and posted from now on, especially with prom coming up and all these other story ideas coming to mind, but I'm trying, I really am. Hopefully there will only be a week or two at the most in between updates, since the chapters aren't very long to begin with.**

**But anyway, here's the third (and so far, the longest) chapter. Enjoy. :)**

The truce didn't last long.

Arthur and Francis had managed to remain distant and coldly civil for an hour, but only because they had been able to escape to different parts of the house. Once the freedom to avoid each other was taken away, however, the fragile truce had shattered.

The cab drive to the airport was the worst. No matter how they sat, Arthur and Francis had always found something to complain about:

"Your freakish mutant brows are blocking out the sun! If I don't get enough exposure, I'll be as pale as you. Move your head!"

"Your cologne is gagging me - what, do you take baths in the stinking stuff?"

"Just because your legs are longer than mine doesn't mean you can take all the extra leg space! Get on your own side of the bloody car."

"Stop brushing up against me. Your pervyness might be contagious."

"You're so boring - reading while you're in a cab with your family. How rude of you. Get your elbow off of my knee!"

By the time they reached the airport, Matthew thought his head might explode. He was hoping their plane wasn't so full so that Arthur and Francis could sit as far from each other as possible and give the poor Canadian a break. In every argument, Matthew had been dragged into it by one or the other of the two fighting nations, which started a whole nother argument. If they were apart, then they couldn't yell and scream and insult each other... Hopefully.

Much to Matthew's relief, their plane was almost empty. So Alfred and Arthur took the first pair of empty seats they saw in the front, leaving Matthew and Francis to look for seats in the back.

"I don't know how I'm going to survive this weekend, mon cher," Francis sighed as the plane took off. "That stupid Brit is going to drive me mad, and if I hear Alfred talk about how 'awesome' this trip is going so far, I think I might explode."

"It could be worse," Matthew reasoned. "You could be trying to kill each other." At Francis's not-so-friendly glare, Matthew scrambled for something else to say. "Maybe trying to see the good side of the situation with you and Arthur would help your mood. That's what Alfred does all the time."

Matthew knew he hadn't said the right thing when Francis all but growled, "I would _never, _in a million years, willingly submit myself to that kind of thinking. Alfred is a _moron_, mon cher, with his simplistic thinking and his hero complex. He and Arthur are just alike, although at least Arthur has the sense to know he isn't anyone's hero."

A shout from the front of the plane caught the attention of the other passengers and turned their heads. "_I'm _simplistic? How _dare _you imply such a thing! All the while, you're over there thinking non-stop about sex and _only_ sex. I have more important things on my mind than who I'm going to shag next!" A few of the passengers chuckled behind their hands at Arthur's outburst.

"That's because you can't _get_ sex! Your short temper and bushy eyebrows turn everyone off. Not to mention your awful teeth. And have you looked in the mirror lately? Your outfits are a disgrace; call the fashion police, someone, please." The sassiness in Francis's voice matched his anger. The rest of the passengers on the plane began giggling, Francis's dark tone flying over their heads as his mocking words filled their ears.

Matthew tugged on Francis's shirt sleeve as he began to rise in his seat. His cheeks and ears burned with embarrassment. "Francis, _please. _You're drawing attention to yourself."

Francis blinked, peering around at the other passengers in the plane. They were all turned in their seats, glancing between Francis and Arthur, who had also turned around in his seat and was glaring over his headrest towards the back of the plane. Huffing, Francis sat down heavily, grumbling insults and empty threats in French.

Matthew suppressed a sigh and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. _This is going to be a __**long **__weekend._

* * *

By the time the plane landed, Francis and Arthur had calmed down. Arthur had given Alfred pills to calm his nerves (present because of the argument _and _the fact that he was terrified of flying), which had eventually knocked him out. Without Alfred to bug him, Arthur had been left alone to distract himself with his book, the shouting match between him and Francis shoved to the back of his mind momentarily, but surely not forgotten. Francis had calmed himself by reading French fashion magazines, grumbling occasionally about how the few English models ruined his fabulous clothes.

Matthew's mortification still clung to him, however, as they stepped into the chilly winter air with their carry-ons. Once Arthur and Francis were back within spitting range of one another, the tension returned, so thick it could be sliced clean-through with a knife. When they finally exited the airport, Matthew breathed a sigh of relief -

\- Until he spotted the cab Alfred had flagged down.

Remembering the earlier cab ride, Matthew panicked and leaped forward, snatching Alfred's arm out of the air. He sent the cab away with a furious wave of his hand.

Stunned, Alfred turned to Matthew, his mouth agape. "Dude, why'd you do that? It's going to take forever to hail another taxi." The whine in his voice gave away just how irritated he was.

Matthew felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Francis standing behind him, his brows stitched together in confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but his words fell on deaf ears. That fire from before was back, burning beneath Matthew's thin layer of skin. He heard nothing but the roaring of blood in his ears; felt nothing but the smoldering heat. His throat closed up, lungs constricting. He opened his mouth but couldn't manage to choke out any words. The world around him blurred, his vision filling with the red heat of the fire traveling through his veins.

Francis's grip on Matthew's shoulder tightened ever so slightly, and he gave him a gentle shake. His vision clearing, the first thing Matthew saw was Francis's concerned expression. Over the Frenchman's shoulder, he could see Arthur staring at him worriedly. Alfred's frustrated shouts for a taxi reached his ears, as if they were far-off, as the crowd hurried past the small group. Slowly, the world came back into focus, the fire inside burning away. In its wake, a deeper embarrassment than what he'd felt before grew.

Francis's lips were moving, but Matthew still couldn't hear his words as he turned towards Alfred, reaching out for his frantically-waving arms again. His voice was quiet and hoarse as he spoke, "Alfred. Maybe we should just take a bus. It would be a lot easier, wouldn't It?"

Alfred stopped jumping and waving his arms, turning towards Matthew with wide eyes. Then his face broke out in a grin and he laughed. "That sounds like a good idea, Mattie. Why didn't you just say that instead of getting all freaky on us?" Alfred continued to laugh as he led the group to the nearest bus stop, which was only a couple blocks away.

"Are you feeling well, mon cher?" Francis murmured, his hand still on Matthew's shoulder. Matthew nodded, his eyes glued to the sidewalk beneath his feet. The embarrassment continued to build, crushing Matthew with its intensity. He felt as if he were suffocating; imagined that he could feel strangers' eyes on him as he took a seat on the bench at the bus stop. The feeling didn't dissipate when he stepped onto the bus, either. No, it only intensified.

Taking a seat all the way in the back, as far away from everyone else as he could get, Matthew huddled up and took deep, shuddering breaths to calm himself. He could feel the cold air seeping through his parka, winter's cold fingers wrapping around him tighter than before. He almost wish the fire would come back and burn away the cold again, but he was beginning to think that heat was nothing but trouble.

* * *

When they stepped off the bus, a coating of snow covered the ground. Matthew stared around in confusion, wondering when the snow had started falling.

"Isn't it pretty, guys?" Alfred boom from the front of the group. He spun around with his arms spread wide, a grin on his face.

Francis, Arthur, and Matthew looked around at the trees surrounding them. It didn't appear to be anything special to them, but they nodded their heads nonetheless.

Clearing his throat uncertainly, Matthew was the first to turn back to Alfred. "Al... this wasn't what you were talking about... right?" He looked around again, his eyebrows stitched together in confusion.

Alfred laughed. "No, Mattie, of course not! There's a hiking trail that we have to follow for a little bit, and _then_ we'll be there."

Arthur groaned and dropped his suitcase in the snow. "I am _not _walking through the forest while it's snowing. I'm not prepared. You didn't tell me anything about this, Alfred Jones." He shot a nasty glare at Alfred, but the American ignored it. Instead, he leaped forward and grabbed a hold of Arthur's hand, tugging him towards the snow-covered trees.

"Come on, Artie," he chirped. "It'll be fun. Besides, it's not long. And no one is prepared. I didn't tell anyone about the hiking trail."

"And why not?" Francis ground out through gritted teeth.

Alfred's beaming smile fell, replaced by a look of sheepish apology. "I... I guess I forgot. Oops." Then he chuckled uneasily.

Sighing, Matthew grabbed Arthur's suitcase and handed it to him. "It's not his fault. He _did _plan this whole thing by himself, remember? It's just one tiny thing." Alfred gave Matthew a relieved, grateful smile.

"We have yet to decide if his planning this whole thing is first place was even a good idea," Francis grumbled under his breath. Thankfully, though, Alfred hadn't heard. He was already halfway to the hiking trail, his suitcase swinging by his side. The other three nations followed.

At the mouth of the hiking trail, Alfred turned and yelled back to them, "Guys! You can stop pouting now. I can see the place from here. It really isn't a long walk at all."

"See? It isn't so bad," Matthew whispered to Francis, who was grumbling insults under his breath.

"Whatever."

Sighing, Matthew stepped up beside Alfred, following his gaze down the hiking trail to the small cabin. It was about a mile and a half in, covered with a thicker blanket of snow than the road and forest around it. From that far back, the cabin didn't appear to be anything special, but Alfred was bouncing in excitement.

"Come on, slowpokes! Let's go!" He ushered, waving his arms frantically towards the cabin. Francis and Arthur groaned.

Matthew stumbled several times on the trail, tripping over hidden stumps and fallen branches. Francis managed to catch him a few times, but he usually collapsed into the snow before anyone realized he'd tripped again. Each time he dragged himself to his feet, covered in snow and shivering, Alfred would cackle without offering a helping hand.

By the time they reached the cabin, Matthew's pants were soaked through from falling so much, and all four were shivering from the cold. The walk had taken longer than expected, and they were all grateful when the door of the cabin finally loomed up before them.

Alfred threw his arms wide. "Here we are! Doesn't it look perfect?"

"It looks cold," Arthur grumbled, shouldering past Alfred and unlocking the door with a key he had wrestled off the American earlier in their trek.

Alfred just laughed. "It's a lot warmer inside. Look, I'll show you." And with that, Alfred shoved Arthur inside the cabin. Francis and Matthew followed.

**A/N: Sorry to end it so abruptly, but I was super anxious to get this posted. Let me know what you think? :)**


	4. Chapter 4: Dinner

**A/N: So sorry for how long it's taken me to finish this chapter. Things have been hectic lately, but I'll try to find time to write the chapters and get them up sooner. Oh, and my apologizes for OOC Canada (spoiler alert?). I'll try and reign him back in later. Maybe. ;)**

Arthur and Francis were at each other's throats in less than twenty minutes. They bickered about who got the bedroom closest to the only bathroom (Francis and Matthew won). They bickered about how much counter space each person got in said bathroom (Arthur doesn't have counter space because "he's a sore loser," Francis says). They even argued about who would be cooking the meals.

"You burn everything you cook, and it tastes like dirty feet! There's _no way _you're cooking," Francis snapped, his nose in the air.

Arthur sputtered angrily, his face red. "My cooking is _not _that bad," he defended, his angry expression fading into a pout.

Francis chuckled. "Oh, Arthur, if only you knew." He plopped onto the couch beside Matthew, flinging his arm over the other's shoulders. "What do you think of Arthur's cooking, mon cher? Doesn't it just _kill _your tastebuds?" Francis shot a smirk towards the Englishman, then turned his amused gaze on Matthew.

The Canadian's cheeks burned red. "Well, I've n-never had Arthur's food b-before - " he began.

"Consider yourself lucky," Francis interrupted with a grimace. He sent another teasing smirk Arthur's way.

Matthew shot Francis a half-hearted glare and continued. "But I'm sure his cooking is just fine." Matthew glanced at Arthur, offering him a shy smile. The Brit returned it.

Francis looked at Matthew in mock horror. "Mon cher! That kind of thinking is going to get you killed!"

Matthew almost chuckled at the comment, but then Arthur snapped, "My cooking has never _killed _anyone, you stupid frog! Stop blowing things out of proportion. You're just being dramatic."

"Proportions aren't the only things I blow, honhonhonhon," Francis murmured to Matthew, who blushed and shifted uncomfortably. Arthur heard the comment and flushed a deep shade of red, but whether it was from anger or embarrassment, Matthew didn't know.

Before Arthur could comment about how inappropriate and foul Francis was, Matthew leaned forward on the couch, his elbows on his knees. "I, personally, don't care _who _cooks." He glanced towards the bedroom that Alfred and Arthur would be sharing, lowering his voice. "Just as long as it isn't Alfred. Can you two at least agree on that?"

Arthur and Francis exchanged glances, shuddering, their minds filled with images of triple cheeseburgers and greasy fries. Then they snickered.

"Good." Matthew smiled triumphantly, proud of himself for stopping a fight before it had even started. He pulled a quarter from his pocket. "Now, how about we flip a coin for who gets dinner responsibilities tonight?" He held up the shining coin, glancing between Francis and Arthur.

"That's childish, Matthew," Francis chuckled warmly.

"It's the only way this will be settled, because we are _not _playing strip poker again." Matthew looked at Francis pointedly, then tossed the coin into the air. "Call it."

"Heads!" Francis shouted, leaning forward enthusiastically as he watched the quarter somersault in the air.

Arthur glared at the coin as it landed in the center of Matthew's outstretched palm. Heads.

Then he flipped the coin onto the back of his other hand.

Tails.

Francis leaped off the couch, pointing an accusing finger at Matthew. "You cheated! I saw it; it was heads, and then you flipped it so that British fool would win. You cheated! Matthew, mon cher, I don't know whether to be angry with you or proud of you..." His voice trailed off at his confession, confusion lacing its way into his expression.

"Dude, that's how the game's played," called Alfred as he exited his and Arthur's room. He was carrying a stack of board games in his arms as he joined the others by the couch, flinging his left arm over Arthur's shoulders as he balanced the board games in his right. "Why are we flipping coins?"

Arthur shrugged Alfred's arm off and turned to the younger blonde. "To see who cooks dinner tonight. And I won." He beamed at the American, clasping his hands proudly behind his back.

Alfred's face drained of color. "Oh god," he murmured, horrified. Arthur's face fell, and Francis cackled.

"And Francis does the dishes because he lost," Matthew interrupted, standing up from the couch and brushing off his jeans. The cackling stopped, and all three turned to stare at Matthew in disbelief.

"Mon cher - " Francis began.

Alfred shifted the board games into his left arm and slung his right on over Francis's shoulders. "You lost fair and square, dude. You're on dishes duty," he teased.

Defeated, Francis hung his head and mumbled weakly in French. He didn't even have the heart to knock Alfred's arm off his shoulders, or the board games out of his arm as he herded the Frenchman and the Canadian to the large coffee table.

"So now, while Arthur goes and burns down the kitchen while trying to make something edible, we're going to play board games," Alfred exclaimed, shooting a teasing smile over his shoulder at Arthur, who stood by the doorway of the kitchen with an angry pout on his face.

"What, no video games?" Matthew asked in surprise as Alfred pushed him into a sitting position by the coffee table.

Alfred pouted as he sat beside Matthew, crossing his legs underneath the table. "Arthur yelled at me for trying to pack my Xbox..."

Rolling his eyes at Alfred's pitiful expression, Arthur turned and entered the kitchen, searching the cabinets for something easy he could make.

* * *

Arthur fidgeted with the strings of his "Kiss the Cook" apron as he stood in front of the stove, glaring at the timer. It was taking too long. Alfred had already shouted from the other room three times that he was withering away to nothing. He'd heard Francis snickering about how they'd wither away to nothing if they ate his cooking anyway, and then the two would laugh as if they were actually friends and were getting along.

Arthur hated how they bonded over their distaste for his cooking. At least he never heard Matthew joining in on any of It...

The soft-spoken Canadian edged his way into the kitchen, his hands occupied by two empty wine glasses and a half-empty Coca-Cola cup. He smiled sheepishly at Arthur and held up the glasses with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Arthur sighed. "Matthew, that's the sixth time they've sent you in here to refill their drinks. I think they've had enough." He grabbed the half-empty wine glass from it's place on the counter anyway and filled the two glasses Matthew had set on the table.

"I'm supposed to be a spy," Matthew explained, rubbing the back of his head, "to see if your food is really going to kill us or not."

Arthur huffed and pouted, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. "They have no faith in me, do they?"

"Nope," Matthew laughed, shaking his head. He reached over to the oven and turned it off.

"You're not very good at being a spy, are you?" Arthur observed as he watched Matthew pulling the casserole out of the oven.

The casserole was set in the center of the table. Matthew grabbed the now-full glasses, balancing them precariously in his hands, and smiled at Arthur. "No, not really, but I _am _good at saving our tastebuds from extinction." Matthew laughed at Arthur's crestfallen expression.

"Not you too," Arthur whined, throwing his oven mitts weakly onto the counter.

Laughing, Matthew exited the kitchen to gather Francis and Alfred for dinner.

* * *

Arthur ate his dinner silently, straining his ears for any noises of displeasure from either Alfred or Francis. He heard none, and he took that as a good sign. Whether the casserole was awful or not - which he didn't think it was, thanks to Matthew for saving it from burning - it wasn't nearly as bad as his cooking usually was (yes, he knew his cooking was awful, he just hated to admit it).

No one talked during the first half of dinner, and Arthur didn't know if he enjoyed the silence or if he wished someone would open their mouths and speak, even if it was to insult his cooking.

"You guys are awfully quiet over there," Matthew observed from where he sat beside Arthur. The Brit sighed with relief, glad that it was Matthew who was the first to speak.

Francis grunted, shrugging his shoulders. Alfred hummed around a mouthful of casserole, eyes flickering between Arthur and Matthew. There were a few more moments of silence while everyone chewed, and then Alfred spoke.

"Thanks, Matt."

Matthew's forked clattered to his plate as he glanced up nervously at Alfred. Francis looked at him in confusion, his gaze flickering from Alfred, to Matthew, to Arthur and back again. His eyes narrowed.

"Mon cher," he began. "Did you help with dinner when you were supposed to spying for us?"

Matthew stayed silent, shaking slightly as he felt the gazes of Alfred and Francis pressing into him. His jaw worked anxiously, but no words came out.

Arthur, much to Matthew's relief, jumps in to save him. "So what? He saved dinner, didn't he, since you all believe I'm an awful cook. And besides, Francis, you've done worse than taking something out of the oven."

Francis flipped his hair over his shoulder. "I don't know what you're talking about. I have done nothing terrible. And what Matthew did wasn't bad - I'm not reprimanding him. He actually made sure dinner was edible, so, mon cher, I thank you."

Arthur ground his teeth at the comment, but bit back his attitude. "You tried to force me to marry you," he said instead, bringing to attention Francis's past as a way to distract from Matthew's "deception."

"I had my reasons," Francis defended, leaning back in his chair.

"You were broke."

"That is a _very _good reason." Arthur and Francis stared at each other for a few silent moments, fighting back their smiles and laughter. Their laughter broke free, however, when America asked, a little more than just slightly confused, "Why would you want to marry _England, _though?"

Francis shrugged when he finally got his laughter under control. "He was richer than me," was his excuse. Arthur beamed, expression triumphant.

"But he still can't cook," Francis teased. He pushed his chair back and stood, gathering the others' empty plates.

England glared at him and contemplated biting Francis's arm as he reached in front of him.

"Now, I am going to fulfill my end of the rigged - " Francis shot Matthew a playful glare " - coin toss and wash the dishes, before Arthur's small brain can come up with even a half-intelligent insult." Tossing a wink at Arthur over his shoulder, Francis turned away and busied himself with the dishes.

**A/N: It's prom night guys, I'm so excited~ x3**


	5. Chapter 5: Restless Night

**A/N: Oh my god I can't believe it's been so long since I last updated! *Horrified* I'm so terribly sorry! I'll try and get the next chapters out ASAP, but I can't make any promises. I just started a new job and school is finally drawing to a close for me, so I don't have much free time. But I will definitely try to write more, I promise you. I hope you enjoy the chapter, and don't forget to please review and favorite. :)**

* * *

After dinner (and almost an hour of insulting, bribing, and begging), Alfred convinced everyone to play one final board game before bed. It wasn't a game he had brought, though. He had found it underneath his bed while unpacking, and he'd been so excited when Arthur and Matthew had agreed to play with him. Francis had only agreed to play because Matthew had agreed, and the Canadian had promised Francis that they could stop playing if the game was "too stupid" or if Alfred turned it into a major contest and ruined the fun.

As Alfred bounded out of his bedroom, board game clenched tightly against his chest, Matthew rolled his eyes, and Arthur suppressed a groan. "Remember this game, Artie?" Alfred asked, his face lighting up with joy. "We used to play all the time when I was younger. You too, Mattie. This was our favorite game!"

A small smile touched Arthur's lips as he stared at the board game. "Yes, Alfred, I remember. But you were also two." His eyes flicked up to meet Alfred's gaze.

Alfred pouted. "Well, yeah... but it was my favorite. And I haven't played in _forever. _I want to play with you guys again." Alfred's pout grew, his eyes widening and watering as he begged Arthur and Matthew to forget about how childish the game was and just _play. _

Arthur scowled and looked away, placing his hand on Alfred's face and pushing him away gently. "Fine, you git. I'll play the game. But don't get all competitive like you used to. Accuse me of cheating and I'll quit. Do you hear me?" He turned back towards Alfred, pointing a stern finger at him.

Nodding enthusiastically, Alfred hurriedly set up the board, handing the cards over to Matthew to shuffle. "Just like old times, huh, Mattie? I still drop every deck of cards I pick up. Might as well let you have your old job back." He grinned widely at his brother, watching as he shuffled the cards and placed them on top of the candy castle.

Clapping his hands enthusiastically, Alfred motioned for Francis and Arthur to join him around the coffee table. When everyone was settled, he glanced around before pulling out the blue game piece. "I go first, since I'm the hero!" Alfred exclaimed, reaching for the deck of cards.

Francis slapped his hand away, his face red. "That is not a reason for why you should go first!" His eyes narrowed, bottom lip jutting out in an angry pout. "What if I wanted to go first?"

Alfred cocked his head to the side, expression one of confusion. "Do you want to go first?"

Francis's angry expression melted into one of surprise before he shook his head slightly, wiping away the expression with his palm. "No. I have no interest in such a childish game. I was just trying to make a point. You never think of anyone else, always yourself." Francis sniffed haughtily, turning his nose into the air. Matthew and Arthur exchanged amused glances, turning their attention to Francis, who stared at the board in angry concentration.

"So... you don't want to go first?" Arthur asked, the corner of his mouth curving into a teasing smirk.

Francis scoffed, shaking his head sharply. He reached for a card, however, when he stopped shaking his head. "I guess I might as well go first, since none of you seem to be making a decision," he explained as he moved his piece to the first red square. He pouted and huffed when he saw that it was the first block on the board. "This game is rigged..." He grumbled, crossing his arms as Matthew reached for a card.

Alfred and Arthur exchanged amused glances, their eyebrows arched, as Matthew passed Francis on the board by five spaces, having picked up a green card. Francis huffed in annoyance, grumbling about how unfair the game was and how he would kill Alfred in his sleep if he lost.

Snorting, Alfred picked up his card and moved his piece, settling on the orange square between Matt's gingerbread man and Francis's, sliding over the rainbow bridge. He stuck his tongue out at Francis. "Just try and catch up."

Francis glared as Arthur picked up a double green card. "I hate this stupid game..." He grumbled, turning his card over to reveal a bright yellow square in the center. "Fuck me!" He groaned, scooting his gingerbread man up two more spaces. Francis glared at Matthew as the Canadian hid his chuckle behind the palm of his hand. "We're not stopping until I win this damn game," Francis snapped when Alfred choked back a snicker.

Arthur snorted and watched in amusement as Matthew advanced his piece to the square with a gumdrop on it. "Well then, this is going to be a long night..."

* * *

Francis lost three games consecutively before he called it quits, rubbing at his eyes and stretching with a yawn.

"Giving up already, Francis?" Arthur teased, smirking at the Frenchman from across the table. One of his thick, thick eyebrows was raised mockingly, challenging the Frenchman.

"I am French, mon cher, and the French do not give up," Francis huffed, his cheeks burning red in embarrassment.

Alfred snorted. "No, they just lose at everything." Matthew and Arthur tried (and failed) to hide their snickers behind their hands and fake coughs.

Francis struggled to his feet and turned his back on the three snickering men, crossing his arms and deciding his pout was too manly for the others to see. His eyes landed on the darkened window, narrowing even further as he inspected the frost creeping across the panes. Lips pursed, he stepped toward the window.

"Hey, Francis, where are you going?" Alfred called as he, Matthew, and Arthur climbed to their feet. All three watched as Francis placed his fingertips against the windowpane and leaned closer, his warm breath fogging up the pane further.

Francis glanced over his shoulder, motioning the other three over with a nod. "The weather's gotten worse since we arrived," he explained once the others were gathered behind him. He stepped aside to give them more room.

Crowding around the window, Arthur, Alfred, and Matthew squinted their eyes to peer into the darkness.

The wind was harsh, whipping the snow around and shrieking as it swirled around the house. Great piles of snow clung to the trees, the windowpane, the house. It was thrown gracelessly onto the ground, accumulating into mountains that covered every surface.

Without warning, the wind changed direction and pelted the window violently with snow, broken bits of tree branches and pine needles, and the sheer force of Mother Nature's anger. Matthew shrieked in surprise, jumping back from the window and hiding halfway behind Alfred, who had jumped slightly at the surprise of the wind and the feel of Matthew's shaking hands on his shoulder blades. Arthur gasped audibly, stepping back and bumping against Alfred's chest, his heart pounding.

Francis held back a snicker, his shoulders shaking with the effort. Arthur shot him a nasty glare, then turned his withering gaze back on Alfred, who's racing heart was finally beginning to slow down. "How come you didn't tell us about the storm? God only knows how long it'll last," he snapped.

Alfred wiggled out from between Matthew's gripping hands and Arthur's angry stance, holding his hands up in surrender. "I didn't know anything about it. Last I knew, there wasn't supposed to be anymore snow, just maybe half an inch or so."

Arthur pointed out the window accusingly, his finger crooked and quivering. "That's a lot more than just 'half an inch or so.' Don't you ever check the weather?"

Matthew stepped up beside Arthur, placing a gentle hand on the crook of his arm. "He probably did, Arthur, but it was most likely the weather for America. He always forgets that I get a lot more snow than he does during the winter. Don't you, Al?" Matthew turned his soft gaze onto Alfred, who hunched his shoulders and dropped his hands back by his sides, nodding in embarrassment.

"See?" Matthew reasoned, turning his attention back to Arthur. "He planned this whole thing by himself, give him some credit."

Arthur's shoulders slumped from their angry set, and he huffed out a heavy breath. "I'm sorry, Alfred." He turned his gaze to Matthew. "Did you bother checking the weather, or did you have at least some sense of how bad it would be? I mean, considering the fact that it _is _your country and everything."

With a sheepish, apologetic smile, Matthew released Arthur's arm and backed away until he stood by Francis's side, his hands up in surrender. "Sorry, Arthur."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You two are _so _related," he grumbled, shaking his head as he walked back to the table with the board game. "Are we going to continue playing, then, or are we going to bed? Because, personally, I'm exhausted." Without waiting for a reply, Arthur crouched down and began putting the board game away.

Matthew rushed over to help him, claiming that he believed they should go to bed, too, and hopefully when they woke up the storm would have passed.

Francis stretched gracefully, reaching up towards the ceiling and mewling like a cat. "While you two have fun with that, I'm going to go to sleep. I need my beauty rest, after all. You don't think someone gets this handsome by staying up all hours of the night, do you?" With a laugh, Francis shot the three men in the main room of the cabin a tired wink and disappeared into his and Matthew's room.

Arthur grumbled under his breath about "stupid French frogs" as he and Matthew finally finished organizing the cards and placing them neatly in the box. Sliding the box underneath the coffee table, Arthur and Matthew stood, both stretching and fighting to stifle yawns.

Alfred waited patiently by the bedroom door for Arthur, a beaming smile on his face. As Arthur passed by him, he scowled. "What are you so happy about?"

Alfred's smile grew wider, if that were even possible. "We all had fun even though none of you wanted to come here in the first place, and you're not mad at me anymore even though I messed something important up." Alfred's smile faltered slightly at Arthur's angry stare, but the Englishman hurried up and wiped his face clean of emotion so as not to upset Alfred even further.

"No, no, love," he soothed, patting Alfred's arm and leading him into the bedroom. "I'm not angry with you. Although I am exhausted, so if you wouldn't mind..."

"Oh, no, of course not," Alfred sang cheerily, bouncing on his heels as he and Arthur changed for bed and climbed underneath their comforters.

* * *

It was the wind that woke him. It rang through the night like the call of a banshee, howling and shrieking mere seconds before the kill. The howling had been quiet at first, barely registering in his dreams of lonesome islands covered in hamburgers and surrounded by Coca-Cola. It had been so low he dreamed it was the call of the sugary waves slapping against the sesame-seed bun of a whopper island. But as time passed, the shrieking grew to an increasing, unbearable level, and the sound stabbed at his ears, wrenching him from his paradise dream.

When Alfred was thrown violently back into his body, it took him a little while to remember where he was, who he was with, and why. But when he did remember that this had all been his idea, that he had not checked the weather like he should have, he began to shiver in fear. The wind's screeching grew in volume, filling his head and bouncing off the walls of his skull.

Finally, he could take it no more. He lifted the pillow off his head and peered at the bed across the room, taking mental notes on how the bump in the middle rose and fell slightly with the rhythm of soft breathing. Alfred called Arthur's names softly, lifting the pillow off his head completely so his voice could travel farther. When he received no answer, Alfred pushed himself up onto his elbow and called Arthur's name again, louder this time.

The only response was the rise and fall of Arthur's body beneath the blanket.

Growling in frustration, Alfred swung his legs over the side of the bed and wrapped his comforter tighter around his body, wincing at the chill of the hardwood floor. He padded softly across the room and leaned over Arthur's sleeping form, reaching out with one hand and shaking the Englishman's shoulder gently.

Arthur started, grumbling and cursing as he was pulled from the deep abyss of sleep. He tossed his head and blinked blearily up at Alfred, who stood above him shaking in the night. "Alfred..." Arthur mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He shifted and rolled over, wiggling until his back was pressed against the wall.

"Arthur, I'm scared," Alfred whispered fiercely, his voice drowned out by the wind's harsh yells. Alfred shuffled closer to the bed, his knees pressing against the old mattress. He whimpered as the wind beat against the windowpane.

Arthur's grumble was lost to Alfred's ears as the Englishman lifted the blanket, silently inviting the American underneath. Sighing greatfully, Alfred wrapped his comforter tighter around his shoulders and climbed underneath Arthur's blanket, snuggling close to the Englishman. He draped an arm over Arthur, sharing his comforter with the smaller man and wiggling closer. Arthur tried to wiggle away from the American, but his back met the wall all-too-soon.

Alfred pouted from where his head was hidden beneath the pillow. "I won't be able to go back to sleep without cuddles, Arthur. You know that." Just as he was pressing himself closer to Arthur again, the wind picked up its fierce pounding, the shrieks growing in volume and the force of the wind against the windowpane increasing. Alfred squealed at the sound, his heart jumping to his throat as he crushed Arthur against the wall, burying his face in the older man's chest.

"There, there, love," Arthur soothed, patting Alfred's back as the man shivered in fear. Gradually, Alfred calmed, his breathing evening out as sleep took hold of him again. The wind howled outside, but Arthur paid it no mind. He focused instead on Alfred's deep breathing, letting the soft sound lull him to sleep.

* * *

**A/N: Brotherly love, anyone? :3 Hopefully the length of this chapter makes up for the lacking quality and the long wait. Again, I apologize. Please review and favorite, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. :)**


	6. Chapter 6: Frozen Frenchman and Pancakes

**A/N: Hey there, guys. :) I received an anonymous review and I always make it a point to reply to as many as I can. However, I couldn't reply to this review in a PM like all the others. So I'm going to reply here and hope that the reviewer comes back to read this chapter so (s)he gets his/her questions answered haha. To answer your question, Guest: No, I did not make up the game. It's called Candy Land, and I love that game so much, even though it's for little children. Thank you for reviewing and I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter. Here's to hoping that you (as in **_**all **_**my readers) ****enjoy this one as well. :)**

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When Alfred awoke, his face was still buried in Arthur's chest. He could feel Arthur's steady heartbeat against his cheek, his eyes closed against the harsh light of morning. The wind still howled outside, and Alfred closed his eyes tighter, trying to block out the noise with the darkness behind his eyelids. His grip on Arthur's bed shirt tightened.

Arthur stirred at the motion, his eyes opening just barely enough to see the top of Alfred's head. He groaned, placing his hands against Alfred's shoulders and pushing gently as he untangled himself from the heavy comforters. He kicked at the sheets tangled around his ankles, mumbling about being cocooned and how it was too warm underneath all those blankets.

"It's still storming," Alfred murmured. Arthur glanced up from where he was on the bed, his hands fisted in a bit of comforter as he tried to free his feet. Alfred had slid off the bed and stepped up to the window, pressing his hands and face against the cool glass.

Arthur gave up in his attempt to free his ankles and instead dragged himself over to the edge of the bed, peering out the corner of the window. The wind still blew, knocking against the windowpane and carrying bits of debris and piles of snow across the white-washed landscape. The ground was invisible, covered by a thick blanket of downy snow. The trees surrounding the cabin were nothing more than heavy walls of white, blocking out the little bit of sun that tried to break through and heat the ground.

Arthur gaped at the scene before him, finally managing to kick the comforters away from his feet and padding over to Alfred. He squinted his eyes and tried to peer through the thick haze of whipping wind and snow, but his vision was cut short as the wind picked up again, slamming against the window and pasting clumps of freezing snowflakes to the glass.

Shaking his head, Arthur grumbled about how much he hated surprises and bad weather, especially when the surprise _is _bad weather. Alfred just continued to peer out the window, seemingly mesmerized by the constant flashes of white hammering the window and sides of the cabin. Arthur busied himself with tidying up the room, making both his and Alfred's bed, and dressing for the day. When he was finished, he tugged on Alfred's arm, distracting him from the window as he pulled him out of the room.

As Arthur and Alfred made their way into the living room, Francis and Matthew emerged from their bedroom. At the sight of Alfred, Francis covered his mouth with his hand and snickered, his shoulders shaking with the effort of restraining the barks of laughter that threatened to escape. "Oh, mon dieu, Alfred. Had I known you were so terrified of storms, I would have suggested this little outing myself. I could practically hear you crying and shaking in fear in the other room," Francis laughed, obnoxiously blocking the doorway to the bathroom with his body, hands on his hips.

Alfred's face drained of color, then brightened with the deep red of embarrassment. "I am not _terrified," _he defended uselessly. "The storm just took me by surprise, is all. I've never seen one this bad."

Matthew peeked into the living room from where he was hiding in the kitchen. "It's actually not that bad of a storm. I've seen worse. It should stop snowing soon," he explained before ducking back into the kitchen.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "That's what you said last night, and it hasn't slowed down a bit."

Francis snorted, dropping his hands from his hips and tossing his hair over his shoulder. "I should hope it slows down soon. We were supposed to leave tomorrow afternoon, and if we can't I think I might die."

Arthur scowled. "That's a little dramatic, don't you think?"

"No, especially since I know that if we stay here at least one more night than was planned, you will want to cook again. And I doubt you will let mon petit Matthew save your dinner again." Francis laughed teasingly at Arthur's reddening, angry face. He stepped aside and slipped into the kitchen before Arthur could begin shouting and defending his atrocious cooking.

Once Francis disappeared, Arthur's shoulder slumped in defeat and he huffed. "My cooking isn't that bad... right Alfred?" He turned his attention to Alfred, who stood slightly behind him, his face still red from the embarrassment of Francis's first comment. At Arthur's question, Alfred shook his head slightly, his gaze meeting the Englishman's.

"Nah, it's just not that good." Alfred beamed down at Arthur, truly believing that his "reassurance" helped boost the Englishman's self-esteem.

"Gee, thanks, lad," Arthur grumbled, shouldering past Alfred and locking himself in the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face.

Alfred ambled out into the kitchen, where Matthew had started preparing breakfast. A large bowl of pancake batter sat beside the stove, Matthew standing beside it and tending to a browning circle of batter.

"Smells delicious, Mattie," Alfred commented as he sidled up beside his brother. He gazed at the pancake hungrily, his stomach growling at the smell that wafted up from the stove.

Matthew cut a sideways glance at Alfred, then turned his attention back to the pancake. He flipped it. "You're going to wait until everyone's breakfast is finished, Alfred," Matthew scolded softly.

Alfred pouted. "But Mattie..." He whined.

Arthur came around the corner, running his tongue along his now-clean teeth. "Don't whine, Alfred. You're too old for that," he reprimanded sharply. He looked around, thick eyebrows drawn in confusion. "Where did the frog go?" His eyes narrowed slightly at the absence of the fourth member of their party.

Matthew shrugged, sliding the pancake onto a plate and pouring more batter into the pan. "He said something about Alfred being a big and then disappeared," Matthew stated in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

Alfred pouted beside him, grumbling about how he wasn't a baby and how much of a meanier Francis was.

Matthew chuckled softly. "Of course you're not, Alfred."

Matthew finished the pancakes soon after, setting the plates on the table in the same places they had eaten dinner the night before. As Arthur and Alfred sat down, Matthew glanced around in confusion.

"Francis still isn't here," he observed softly. "I wonder where he went...?" Arthur and Alfred shrugged, looking around the kitchen quickly before turning their attention back to their plates.

"I'm starved, Mattie," Alfred complained, holding his stomach as it growled loudly in the near-silence of the kitchen. "Can't we eat without him?"

Matthew turned sharp eyes on Alfred. "No, we can't. That's not what families do." Alfred slumped in his seat and pouted, his brow furrowing in disappointment.

"Oh dear, don't act like that," Arthur murmured, leaning to the side slightly and flicking his gaze to Alfred. "He'll turn up soon. The whole house smells like pancakes, and we all know how much Francis loves Matthew's pancakes."

Alfred's pout deepened. "Everyone loves Matthew's pancakes. That's why I want to eat them _right now." _Matthew beamed at the compliment.

There was a bang as the back door of the cabin slammed shut, followed by the sound of logs dropping to the floor. Matthew, Arthur, and Alfred jumped, their heads turning towards the sound. Alfred released a girlish squeak, his cheeks reddening at the sound that had escaped his mouth.

Francis stood in the doorway, his hands wrapped around his torso tightly. Snow covered every inch of his body, clinging tightly to the thick parka he wore. The other three nations could hear the chattering of his teeth from where they sat at the table.

"Oh, Francis, what did you do?" Matthew cried in surprise.

Francis shivered and shuffled forward. "It l-l-looked like the s-snow had sl-slowed down, so I w-w-went to get some logs for the f-f-f-fire before it got w-w-worse," Francis explained haltingly. A violent shiver wracked his body.

Arthur stood and left the room, mumbling about going to retrieve a blanket.

Matthew rushed forward and pried the parka off Francis's body, tossing it on the floor by the backdoor. "Well, for one," Matthew explained as he rubbed warmth back into Francis's arms. "The firewood is drenched in snow. It won't keep a fire alive, let alone start one. For two, you never go outside during a snowstorm. And three, you could have told me you wanted firewood. There's some in the little room beside the backdoor. There was no need to go outside in the storm."

"Silly frog," Arthur murmured as he approached Francis with an extra comforter he had found in a closet beside the bathroom. He wrapped the blanket tightly around the Frenchman's shoulders, helping Matthew lead him to the table.

Alfred stared at Francis, wide-eyed, for a few seconds before his face broke out in a grin. He lifted his hand to his mouth and tried to stifle his chuckles.

Francis, Arthur, and Matthew glared. "This isn't funny, Alfred!" Matthew snapped. He turned his attention back to Francis and ran his fingers through the Frenchman's damp hair. "He could get frostbite or hypothermia or something." Matthew bent and pressed his warm cheek against the crown of Francis's head, cooing to him softly in French.

Alfred snorted, dropping his hand back to his lap. His shoulders continued to shake with mirth as he exclaimed, "Yeah, but he totally looks like abominable snowman right now!"

Matthew's cheeks reddened in anger, his eyes narrowing. Arthur leaned back from where he had been wrestling Francis's boots off his feet and stared at the Frenchman's face. A snort escaped him as he leaned back down to finish his job, tossing the boots by the back door to join the parka.

Arthur returned to the other side of the table, taking his seat beside Alfred and peering at Francis from his new vantage point. He leaned towards the American and murmured softly in his ear, "Yes, I do believe you are right, lad." Alfred choked back a snort, dropping his gaze to the table as his shoulders shook more violently with his restrained laughter.

Matthew switched his glare to Arthur, having heard what he'd said. Francis's body was wracked with another violent shiver, but he waved Matthew away with a frozen hand. "I can take it from here, mon cher," he soothed, placing his hand on Matthew's shoulder. The Canadian could feel the cold seeping through his thick, long sleeved shirt. "No need to worry yourself anymore. I can even feed myself. Look." Francis picked up his fork, his hand shaking slightly as he cut off a piece of pancake and brought it to his mouth. A sigh of content escaped his lips at the warmth of the food and the burst of flavor that danced across his tastebuds.

Matthew sat back in his chair with a huff, his lips pursed. "If you say so..." He mumbled.

Francis grinned warmly at Matthew. "Now, I do believe we have some pancakes to polish off, non?"

* * *

**A/N: I finished this the day after I posted the last chapter. I felt so accomplished, but I forced myself to refrain from posting it. It killed me, but I managed. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please review and favorite. :)**


	7. Chapter 7: Grounded

**A/N: Four words: Work. Kicks. My. Ass. But because you guys are so important to me **_**and**_** to the survival of this story, I've managed to write you yet another chapter. I'm sorry it's not all that great, though. Nothing really funny or important happens. But I tried to write at least **_**something **_**and this is what I came up with****. I hope you enjoy, and please don't forget to review and favorite. It means the world to me to know what you guys think. :)**

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No one wanted to play board games anymore - not even Alfred. The four nations had exhausted their tolerance for dealing directly with one another after the fifth (and the most violent) round of Jenga. Which is exactly how they had ended up in their current position; shivering beneath blankets around the small, crackling fire, sitting as close to one another as they could without actually touching the nations around them. The blocks from the game sat in the center of their close-knit circle, stacked into the neatest little tower any of them had ever seen.

Until Alfred got bored.

He reached out slowly, so as to not alert the other three nations to his sudden movement, and tapped one of the blocks near the base of the tower. It slid out quietly, quickly, sticking out of the side of the tower like a growth.

Arthur's eye caught the movement immediately. His gaze flickered to the offending block before traveling up to Alfred's half-hidden face. Thick eyebrows furrowed in agitation at the mischievous smirk dancing across the American's face.

Slowly, Arthur reached out and slid the block back into place, his gaze never once leaving Alfred's face. He brought his hand slowly back beneath the thick blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders.

Alfred's smirk grew as he reached out again, tapping one block out towards the top. He kept his hand free from the blanket this time, laying it innocently in the center of the space created by his crossed legs.

Arthur huffed in annoyance, disentangling his hand from the blanket once again. As he was reaching out for the block Alfred had poked out of place, the American reached forward as well, poking out another block towards the center of the tower.

Arthur growled. He could feel Francis's and Matthew's questioning gazes on him as he poked both of the blocks back into place, but he chose to ignore them. Instead, he focused on Alfred, watching as the American lifted his hand slowly once more, reaching out towards the now-pristine block tower.

He hadn't thought of the block tower getting in his way. He hadn't thought of the blankets tangling further around his legs and tripping him. All he'd thought about was stopping that hand from displacing anymore blocks. So when Arthur lunged forward and grabbed Alfred's hands, when the blankets had constricted his movement, when he had fallen forward and crash-landed on top of the block tower, he had blamed it all on Alfred.

"Look what you did, you bloody git!" Arthur snapped as he picked himself up off the floor. A few of the blocks had dug into his sides and stomach, creating angry red indents in his pale skin. He rubbed the sore spots gently, pouting angrily and glaring at Alfred.

He was cackling. Like a maniac. Alfred's face was red from the lack of oxygen, tears of joy pricking at the corners of his eyes. Francis struggled to choke back his laughter, hiding the shaking of his shoulders as best he could. At least Matthew had the decency to appear concerned, even though he was also trying to hide a smile behind his fingertips.

Arthur's anger subsided quickly into embarrassment. His cheeks burned with growing intensity, forest green eyes flashing as Alfred continued to cackle breathlessly, laying on his side and wiping his eyes with the corner of the comforter still wrapped around his body.

"It's okay Arthur..." Matthew mumbled from the other side of Francis. He leaned forward and tried to meet Arthur's eyes, but the Englishman averted his gaze, eyes burning as intensely as his cheeks.

Matthew whined at Arthur's rejection, turning his gaze to the still-laughing Alfred. "Okay, Al, you can stop now. It wasn't that funny," he tried to reason.

Alfred, surprisingly, stopped laughing immediately. He straightened up and wiped at his eyes, shoulders still shaking from the force of his laughter. "It was actually hilarious, Matt," Alfred corrected breathlessly.

Arthur shot him a nasty scowl, lip curled in distaste.

"Why did you fall, Arthur? Finally lost control of your old legs?" Francis asked, chuckling softly.

Arthur pouted childishly. "Because Alfred kept messing up the tower I built," he corrected, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the blocks scattered across the cabin floor.

"Well it's not my fault your OCD kept messing with my fun," Alfred teased, leaning forward and sticking his tongue out at Arthur.

Francis rolled his eyes, mouthing the word "children" to Matthew. The Canadian chuckled behind his hand.

"Now Alfred," Matthew began, locking an accusing gaze on his brother. "You hurt Arthur's feelings. Apologize." Alfred snorted, but at the withering look Matthew gave him, he turned towards Arthur, bottom lip jutting out in a prize-winning pout.

"I'm sorry you're so stuffy," Alfred mumbled, his eyes narrowed and face turned towards the window on his right. The snow was still falling in heavy sheets, blocking the view of the outside world.

Matthew threw up his hands in defeat.

"But if it makes you feel better, I'll help you build your stupid tower again..." Alfred finished.

Arthur's eyebrows raised in surprise. "And you won't ruin it again?" He highly doubted it, but if he got Alfred to say that he'd leave the tower alone then he would have something against him when he messed it up again.

Alfred nodded slowly, lips pursed. Arthur fancied he was thinking of a way to knock it down without it appearing to be his fault.

"I won't touch it..." Alfred mumbled.

Arthur nodded. "Good." As he leaned over and began picking up the blocks, Alfred did the same, grumbling about stupid Brits and their stupid OCD the whole time.

* * *

Alfred and Arthur were banned from the main room after yet another altercation had broken out between the two nations about the blocks. Eventually, they had stopped arguing about who's fault it was, but they both still firmly believed it was the other's fault. And they were both still grounded.

Grounded.

Fucking_ grounded_.

"I am the bloody United Kingdom! No one has the right to ground me!" Arthur fumed from where he sat cross-legged on his bed. He had the blankets and sheets wrapped tightly around his body. The large comforter he stole from the closet in the hall covered half his face, protecting his nose and lips from the bitter chill of the room.

"So go tell Francis that," Alfred mumbled dejectedly from his spot on his own bed. He was stretched out on his stomach, face buried beneath his pillow and body covered with the large comforters he had stolen from Francis's and Matthew's room for being so mean to him.

Arthur growled, slumping against the wall of the cabin. The chill of winter that had settled into the unheated walls seeped through the blankets' protection, and he jerked away with a cry of surprise. Shivering violently, Arthur laid down and curled up on his side, burying his into his pillow. "No," he muttered, voice muffled by the thick pillow.

"That's what I thought." Alfred rolled over, groaning and tucking his knees up to his chin. "Hey, Arthur?"

"Hmm?" The Brit turned his head and stared at Alfred through half-lidded eyes.

Alfred lifted the pillow off his face, turning his head towards Arthur. "I'm sorry."

"'S not big deal," Arthur grumbled, burying his face back into his pillow.

A few silent moments passed between the two. They had been laying in their own beds for what had felt like hours, hoarding the heat that the blankets wrapped around them had created. However, that heat lasted for only a short amount of time compared to how long they thought they had been locked in their room. So when a violent shiver tore its way through Alfred's body, he groaned and rolled back over to face Arthur.

"Hey, Art?" He began tentatively, wondering if the Englishman had fallen asleep as he stared at the still, deep-breathing form beneath the blanket.

There was a sound of recognition form across the room, and the lump shifted as Arthur turned towards Alfred's voice.

"I'm cold and lonely..."

Arthur sighed. He raised his arm, lifting the blanket up enough for Alfred to know he was being invited over.

With a squeal of thanks, Alfred gathered his blankets around himself and rushed over to Arthur's bed, cocooning both him and Arthur underneath the many blankets they had collectively.

The warmth that now surrounded them was almost overwhelming, but they dealt with it. Compared to the blast of cold air that greeted them every time one of them shifted position, the heat was a welcome alternative.

Alfred and Arthur stayed cuddled up underneath the blankets, sharing body heat as they waited for Francis or Matthew to come tell them when they were allowed back out.

* * *

**A/N: That Jenga incident with Alfred knocking the blocks out of place just to piss Arthur off? Yeah, that's definitely my brother. It's so aggravating. But anyway, I apologize again for the length and the content not being that great, but I tried and this was the best I could come up with. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and please review and let me know what you think. It's greatly appreciated. :)**


	8. Chapter 8: Pictures

**A/N: I graduated! :D I'm so proud of myself for making it through without breaking down and beating someone with a frying pan... But no, seriously, I'm glad to finally be out of school, but unfortunately it all starts again on the third of September. The only difference? It's COLLEGE! So, as a celebration of sorts, I am uploading this the day after my graduation (because by the time I got home, I was exhausted). Congratulations to me? Haha I'm just kidding. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)**

* * *

That was how Matthew found them, cuddled up beneath the blankets and sleeping, the sounds of their soft snoring filling the room. He had gone to tell them that Francis had said they could come out for dinner, but seeing them sleeping peacefully - evidently having made up and forgotten about the entire Jenga incident - he didn't want to wake them. Part of it was because he really didn't want the childish arguing to continue, and the other part of it was because they looked so... sweet when they were asleep.

Matthew quirked his mouth to the side, adopting his "thinking face" as he thought of what he should do. After a heated mental debate (consisting mainly of who would be the first to kill him for it later, and why should he even care?), Matthew closed the door softly and padded into the kitchen, poking his head around the corner and grinning at Francis.

"Mon cher?" He asked from where he stood on the other side of the table.

Matthew's grin widened. "You have to come see this. Bring your phone." And with that he was gone, having rushed as quietly as he could back to the door of Alfred's and Arthur's bedroom.

When Francis joined Matthew, the Canadian shot him a wicked smirk. "I told you they got along just fine when they were by themselves," he stated as he opened the door. The hinges squeaked, but it was quiet enough that the snoring of the two in the bed blocked it out.

Francis covered his mouth with his hand, chuckling quietly at the sight before him.

Arthur's and Alfred's legs were tangled together, two pairs of feet poking out from beneath the comforters they had hoarded. The two bodies were held tightly against one another, their arms wrapped around each other's frames and their foreheads pressed together. Alfred's glasses were askew on his face, dangerously close to falling off and being crushed between the two on the bed. From across the room, Francis and Matthew could see the drool shining on both Alfred's cheek and the pillow.

Francis must have been reading Matthew's mind, because as soon as he turned around to tell Francis to take a picture, the Frenchman already had his camera phone raised, snapping picture after picture of the two sleeping men. He brushed past Matthew and stepped inside the room after taking about ten photos by the door.

The viewpoint from the camera was even better inside the room. Francis chuckled low in his throat, snapping some more pictures. He moved closer. Now he could see every bump and curve beneath the comforters, and he took a mental note of how one of Arthur's legs was draped over Alfred's hip.

"Honhonhonhon," he chuckled sinisterly, stepping even closer and leaning over to take as many pictures of their faces as he could. Francis's thighs were pressing into the bed, dipping the mattress slightly as he leaned over more to try and get a better picture.

"Be careful, Francis," Matthew whispered to him from where he stood on the other side of the room.

Francis shot a glare at Matthew over his shoulder. "I am always careful, mon cher," he muttered. "No need to worry." And with that Francis turned back around and continued snapping photos, leaning more and more into the bed as he tried to snap clear photos of Alfred's face.

The mattress couldn't support the sudden extra weight, and it dipped too far to support the drooling American any longer. Alfred rolled into Francis, colliding with his thighs and knocking the Frenchman off his feet.

Arthur was thrown forward, startling him awake. He shot upright, eyes flying around the room in shock. When his gaze landed on Alfred and Francis, his eyebrows stitched together and he glared. "What the bloody hell is going on?" He snapped.

Alfred and Francis were sprawled on the floor, limbs tangled together from the force of their fall. Francis struggled weakly to try and roll Alfred off him.

Alfred groaned and struggled to his feet, a fussing Frenchman's knees poking him in the ribcage the whole time. When he sat up on his knees, blinking blearily around the room, the first person his unfocused gaze settled on was Matthew.

"Mattie...? What are you doing in here?" He shook his head and blinked rapidly, as if he were trying to clear his mind. "Is it time for dinner?"

Matthew fidgeted in his spot by the bedroom door. Up until that point, Arthur hadn't noticed him, and the small Brit's anger had been directed solely at Francis. Now that Alfred had pointed out his presence, however, Arthur's furious gaze was turned to Matthew.

"Yes, Matthew," Arthur began slowly, quietly. "What _are _you doing in here?"

Matthew sputtered and tugged self-consciously on the cuff of his sweater, his eyes roaming around the room and never resting on an object or person for too long. "I... We..." Matthew's heartbeat was in his throat, and he could feel his panic rising inside with the force of a tidal wave.

"Is dinner done, Mattie?" Alfred asked. He and Francis had successfully disentangled themselves, and both were now standing, brushing off and straightening their clothes.

Matthew's gaze locked with Alfred's the deep, ocean blue of his brother's eyes calming him fractionally. With a frantic nod of his head, Matthew turned and raced from the room, taking his seat at the dinner table and waiting for the other three to join him.

* * *

Arthur's gaze was suspicious, and it flickered between Matthew and Francis throughout dinner, which was awkward and tense. The food was delicious (although Arthur would never tell Francis that), but the atmosphere left them all with a nasty taste in their mouth.

Matthew felt guilty. Even though he hadn't been the one taking the pictures, he had brought the snuggling nations to Francis's attention, which meant that he had a major part in the whole thing. He knew neither Arthur nor Alfred knew that was what Francis had been doing, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Arthur, at least, knew something fishy had been going on.

Francis felt triumphant at having gotten so much blackmail material, but he couldn't quite rid himself of the feeling of Alfred's heavy body lying on top of his. Just thinking about it sent shivers of disgust down his spine.

Arthur felt suspicious, but he also felt as if the answer was right under his nose. He couldn't shake the feeling that the answer was obvious, teasing the edges of his mind and dancing away from his touch, laughing at him every time he reached for it and came up with nothing. That put him in a bad mood, and his dark aura reached out to the other nations', brushing its fingertips against their skin and leaving behind traces of itself in their attitude.

Even Alfred, having (for once in his life) picked up on Arthur's sour mood, felt somehow violated. He knew _something _had been going on while he and Arthur were sleeping, he just didn't know what. Otherwise, Francis never would have ended up rolling him off the bed, and neither of them would have ended up on the floor.

But Matthew wasn't speaking - he was skirting around the questions Arthur managed to sneak into the sparse conversation. He wouldn't meet anyone's gaze, avoided looking in Francis's direction, and barely touched his food. Alfred and Arthur knew something was up, then, because Matthew always ate whatever Francis cooked, and he always cleaned his plate.

Arthur didn't find out what the two French-speaking nations had been doing in his and Alfred's room until after dinner was finished and the dishes had been cleaned. Matthew was sitting by the window, commenting occasionally on how the snow was letting up, and hopefully they would be able to go home soon.

That, however, proved to be a futile assumption. When the snow finally had let up completely, Matthew had showed the other three nations that he hadn't been lying and that, yes, it really had stopped.

So Alfred tugged on his boots, zipped himself up in multiple jackets, and exclaimed that he was going to make a bunch of snowmen and snow angels.

Until he opened the door.

When he opened the door and rushed outside, he was met by a four-foot tall wall of snow. And it all came crashing inside the house when Alfred tried to make his way through. The gust of wind that accompanied the snow extinguished the fire, swirling around the small living room and chilling everything it touched. Matthew, Arthur, and Francis shivered, clutching their blankets tighter around them.

Alfred was pinned beneath the snow, his legs and arms working to free himself from the crushing weight of the snow that had collapsed on top of him. Francis saw this as another opportunity. He stepped forward, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and snapping picture after picture of the struggling American.

Arthur's eyes narrowed, the last pieces of the puzzle finally snapping into place. His face turned a dark shade of red, embarrassed that Francis has proof of his and Alfred's earlier situation. Stomping forward, Arthur snatched the camera phone from Francis's hands.

"Mon Dieu!" Francis cried, reaching for his phone and glaring at the Englishman. "What do you think you're doing?"

Arthur held the phone out of Francis's reach, dancing away from him. His eyes were glued to the phone screen. "Getting rid of those blasted pictures you took, you pervert!" Arthur snapped, glancing away from the phone only quick enough to shoot a glare in Francis's direction. Behind Francis, Arthur could see Matthew helping Alfred to his feet, chuckling as he helped brush the snow off the American.

His attention was brought back to the phone in his hand when the screen darkened. With a quick tap he was taken to the gallery, where at least fifty pictures of Alfred and himself from earlier that morning were buried beneath pictures of pretty, half-naked women and shirtless men. With a scowl, Arthur tapped on the first picture.

It was one of the pictures Francis had taken from the doorway. There wasn't much to see, so Arthur deleted it. The next few pictures were exactly the same.

Delete.

The pictures were steadily growing closer to the bed, Arthur's sleeping face becoming more clear as the pictures increased. Alfred was nothing more than a lump beneath the blanket, face blocked from the camera's view.

Delete.

Now the pictures were right beside the bed. Both Alfred and Arthur were visible. Arthur's face was scrunched up in an expression that was undoubtedly related to bad dream, while Alfred's face remained largely invisible to the camera lens.

Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete.

Oh.

Wait a minute.

Arthur's eyes narrowed in concentration at the picture before him. Only the crown of his head was visible, but Alfred's face was finally clear. The boy was sleeping peacefully, drool oozing from the corner of his mouth. The corner of Arthur's mouth turned up in disgust, but then he realized how young Alfred looked.

Tilting his head to the side, Arthur examined the picture more closely. He had never noticed how much younger Alfred looked without his glasses. It was as if the glasses alone added ten years to the young man's face.

"Like what you see, mon ami?" Francis purred. He leaned his chin lightly on Arthur's shoulder, smirking at the picture on his phone. "That one is my favorite." He points to the screen, finger poking at the drool on Alfred's chin. "Doesn't he look like such a child? It is simply adorable, is it not, Arthur?"

Arthur's cheeks burned in embarrassment, but he was unable to turn his gaze from the picture. Yes, he agreed with Francis, even with the part about the picture being his favorite, but there was no way he could ever admit that.

Francis seemed to be able to read Arthur's mind, however, because he chuckled knowingly, breath ghosting through Arthur's unruly hair. The Englishman shivered, his cheeks burning brighter.

"Hey, what's so interesting?" Alfred's voice boomed from behind Francis. The two men jumped, and Arthur let out a girlish squeak of surprise.

Quicker than lightning, hoping Alfred hadn't seen anything, Arthur's hand disappeared behind his back, hiding the phone from view. He pressed the device against Francis's body, willing him silently to take the blasted thing before Alfred could force it from him.

"N-nothing, you bloody idiot," Arthur stuttered breathlessly. He avoided Alfred's curious gaze, face burning.

Alfred tilted his head to the side, eyes wide. Matthew peeked at Arthur from where he stood behind Alfred, a knowing smirk on his face. Arthur gulped, glancing down at the floor.

His phone beeped, indicating a text message. Curious, Arthur slipped his phone out of his pocket and opened the message. It was a picture.

The picture he had been staring at of Alfred sleeping.

Arthur's face burned even more, his neck heating up at the sight of the picture. He locked his phone and shoved it deep into his pocket, eyes shifting between the other three nations discreetly.

Another text message. Arthur checked his phone quickly, swallowing back a growl at what he read.

**[Frog]**

**You're welcome. ;)**

* * *

**A/N: Sorry to end it so abruptly, but I was really excited to get this chapter up. I just love it. Love it love it love it. So much haha. Anyway I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please don't forget to review and favorite. :)**


	9. Chapter 9: Radio

**A/N: Bad news, guys - the end is close. :( There's only going to be a couple more chapters for this story, but I'm not sure of the exact number**_** just**_** yet. You will get a warning, however, either on the chapter before the last or on the last chapter, I'm not sure yet. I'm still trying to think of how I can make this last without dragging it out. xD Uhm, I think that's all I have to say for now, so... I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)**

* * *

The chill left behind from the snow refused to go away, even after it had been shoveled from the doorway and all the water had been soaked up. Alfred continued to walk around the cabin wrapped up in two thick comforters, though, shivering and sniffling. No matter how many times Arthur yelled at him to sit still and give his body a chance to warm up, Alfred refused to listen. He just kept walking in circles around Arthur, clacking his teeth together and sniffling dramatically.

"Will you stop walking around like that?!" Arthur snapped once he finally grew beyond annoyed with the pacing American.

Alfred stopped walking and turned towards Arthur, bottom lip jutting out obnoxiously. "Take care of me and I'll stop," he complained, a slight whine in his voice.

"Take care of you?" Arthur asked incredulously. "What the bloody hell do you want me to take care of you for?" Arthur's eyes narrowed, his fuzzy eyebrows furrowing above the bridge of his nose.

Alfred pouted, taking a step closer to Arthur. "Because you always know how to make me feel better. And since I'm not allowed to make or eat hamburgers, you're the next best option," he explained in a matter-of-fact tone.

Arthur bristled at the back-handed compliment. "I'm second to your heart-attack-inducing lumps of meat?" His eyebrow twitched in aggravation when Alfred beamed at him, taking a step closer.

"Well... yeah," Alfred agreed, sounding surprised that Arthur had asked in the first place. "Food comes before everyone."

Arthur opened his mouth to snap some smart-assed comment about Alfred's love for food showing in his love handles, but snapped it shut when he got a better view of Alfred's face. He had taken another step closer, and was within arms' reach. Up close, Arthur could see the American's shining, watery eyes, the angry redness of his nose, and the cracks of his chapped lips.

He sighed despite himself, motioning for Alfred to come sit beside him. The American squeaked in joy and bounced onto the couch, leaning heavily against Arthur. "You're the best, Artie," he hummed. Arthur rolled his eyes, placing his hand on the top of Alfred's head and ruffling his hair.

The sound of a door closing floated out to them through the kitchen, and Arthur's attention was turned from Alfred (which earned the Brit an impatient huff and a nudge) and towards the sound. Matthew emerged from the doorway, a small rectangular device in his hands.

"Hey, guys," he exclaimed excitedly, tearing his eyes away from the machine for the first time since he had found it. The smile that had been forming across his lips fell, and he rolled his eyes. "Really, Al?" He trained his eyes on his brother, raising on perfectly-groomed eyebrow.

"Don't judge me, Mattie," Alfred mumbled. His voice was muffled from where his face was buried in Arthur's shoulder, the blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. "I'm cold, and Arthur's warm. And now he's even more warm because of this blanket."

Arthur and Matthew both rolled their eyes at Alfred's idea of logic.

"What do you have in your hands, Matthew?" Arthur asked, his gaze having been drawn to the small contraption in the Canadian's hands the moment he had walked through the door. He hadn't been able to tear his gaze away.

"Oh!" Matthew glanced back at his hands as if he had forgotten he was holding something. "Francis and I found this in the storage room where the firewood is. It's an old radio." He held the machine out towards Arthur, stepping forward to give the Brit a better look.

Arthur's eyes widened. It had been decades since he'd last seen a radio like the one Matthew had found - it was one of the small radios, big enough only for two nobs, one for the volume and one for the stations, and a speaker. There wasn't even a face to see which station you were on. Arthur reached out and ran the tips of his fingers along the wood, eyes twinkling in reminiscence when he felt that the faded wood was rough with age and weather-worn.

"Does it still work?" Arthur glanced up at Matthew.

Matthew shrugged. "We weren't sure. Francis said to bring it up to you and have you look at it. He said your 'old bones' would know if it worked or not, and that you would know _how _to work it."

Arthur sputtered. "I resent that! He's _older _than me, whether he likes to admit it or not!" His face and neck reddened in anger as he reached for the radio.

Alfred snorted into Arthur's shoulder, reminding both Matthew and Arthur that he was still present. "I know that's the truth and all, dude, but you definitely act more like a stick-in-the-mud old man than Francis does."

Arthur's hand that had reached for the radio changed direction and smacked Alfred in the back of the head, eliciting a yelp of pain from the American. With a satisfied smirk on his face, Arthur grabbed the radio from Matthew and examined it.

"It might work, if it didn't get damaged from the snow or from lack of use," Arthur stated, handing the radio back to Matthew.

The Canadian's eyes lit up as he hugged the device to his chest. "So you think this can connect to one of my radio stations and tell us what's going on with this storm and how long it will be until we can get out of here?" He sounded too hopeful, pleading with Arthur to agree with him. Arthur nodded his head, his fingers finding their way back among Alfred's blonde locks. He massaged the sore spot where he had hit him, eyes flashing to Francis, who had just walked through the entrance leading from the kitchen.

"Well, hello there, _older _brother," Arthur hissed.

Francis waved his hand in Arthur's direction but never actually turned to face him. "Why is it that the only time you call me 'brother' is when you're trying to insult me? It really is so childish. Please, Arthur dear, act your age." Francis shot Arthur a teasing smirk when the Briton sputtered indignantly.

Before Arthur could fire back with another insult, Alfred raised his head from the Brit's shoulder. "Dudes, does the stupid radio work or not?" He cast curious, slightly-accusing glances at the three other nations before burying his face back into Arthur's shoulder, covering his head with the blanket that was wrapped around his arm.

Matthew glanced down at the radio in his hands as if he had just remembered (again) that he was holding it. "Oh, well... I'm not sure yet. Let me just..." He turned and placed the radio on the surface of the coffee table, kneeling down and turning the knobs experimentally. Nothing happened.

Flustered, Matthew turned towards Arthur. His eyes were wide and his shoulders were rigid, shaking slightly. "Art - "

"You have to turn it on, Matthew," Arthur suggested, leaning forward and flicking a switch on the side of the radio. The radio jumped to life, static filling the room at a hushed level.

Francis raced over and sat on the couch, shoving Alfred's feet onto the floor. Alfred grumbled as he shifted his position, leaning heavily against Arthur. He watched his brother through half-closed eyes as the Canadian turned a knob, searching for a station.

Finally, Matthew found the weather station and stood up, turning up the volume so everyone could hear It. Francis wrapped his arms around Matthew's hips and pulled him down so he was sitting half on Francis's lap and half on the sliver of cushion between Francis's thigh and the arm of the couch. Matthew squirmed, uncomfortable, but Francis wouldn't let him go.

The nations listened to the weather broadcast, which was documenting all of the damage the storm had done. Apparently, the part of the country the cabin was located in got the lowest dosage of the storm. Matthew sighed when he heard that, glad that he would be able to leave soon if this part of his country hadn't been damaged too bad. But as he continued to listen, his sighs turned to squeaks of horror. The rest of the country that had been hit with the storm had been devastated, and hearing about all the damage that had been done turned Matthew's stomach.

The broadcast cut off abruptly.

Jumping up in shock, Matthew whirled on his brother, who was in the process of leaning back into Arthur and situating himself comfortably beneath the blanket. Matthew pointed a trembling finger at him. "I was listening to that, Alfred!" He yelled.

Alfred, Arthur and Francis jumped, shocked that Matthew's voice could even reach that volume. "Dude, we heard what we needed to hear. We're getting out of here in two days. Three days, tops. We don't need the radio anymore."

"_You _might not need the radio, but this isn't your country, now is it?" Matthew could feel hot tears stinging the backs of his eyes, and that heat from the beginning of the vacation coursed through his veins again. "I need to know what happened. I need to know how many people are trapped, how many roads are down, how many businesses are out of business because of the storm. I need to know all the damage that was done, and just because you don't care enough to sit here and listen with me doesn't mean that this isn't important. Turn the damn radio back on." Matthew's voice was barely above a whisper by the time he finished, but the other nations in the room heard him loud and clear, fro the very beginning.

Alfred, however, refused to listen.

"Dude," he began. "I told you to leave this work stuff at the office. We're on vacation. You don't have to worry about that until you get home." Alfred sat up straighter, relieving Arthur of his weight. His eyes were wide and clueless.

Matthew clenched his fists at his side, gritting his teeth. "If I don't worry about this now, we might _not_ get home." He struggled to stay calm, he struggled to even out his breathing, and he struggled to ease the burning in his veins, but nothing worked. The more he tried to calm himself down, the more angry he became.

Alfred rolled his eyes. "It's just a little storm. We'll get home soon. You heard them, Matt. They're working on clearing the roads and getting the airports back up and running. You have nothing to worry about."

Matthew's clenched fists began to shake. "I have _everything _to worry about, you damned idiot. You don't know what my storms are like! Depending on how bad the rest of the region is, we could be stuck here for another week. _At least_."

"So? That'd be so cool. We'd get to spend even more time together." Alfred smiled up at Matthew, his bright teeth flashing in the fluorescent lighting.

Matthew suppressed a growl and slammed his clenched fist down on the coffee table. The sudden movement shocked the other three nations to their feet, and the radio toppled onto its side from the vibrations Matthew's fist made. He turned blazing eyes towards his brother, his teeth bared.

"No," Matthew snapped. His voice was harsh and grating. "That wouldn't be 'so cool.' That would be a disaster. This whole vacation has been a disaster! You might have been too clueless to see it, but that doesn't mean that it isn't true. _No one _had a good time except for you, Alfred, and it's about damn time we all went home. This vacation was a bad idea from the beginning, and I regret not telling you that when you first called me about it." Matthew slammed his fist down on the coffee table again when he felt the hot tears spill from his eyes and burn tracks down his cheeks. Turning his gaze to his brother, he saw that Alfred was crying, too.

The heat in his veins dried up, leaving him feeling cold and empty. His breath caught in his throat.

Francis wrapped his arms around Matthew's shoulders, and he felt warm breath tickle his ear as Francis spoke to him, but he couldn't hear the words that were said. All he could hear were Alfred's sniffles.

Matthew wasn't aware that Francis had led him into their room until he felt the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed. He welcomed the warmth of the comforters as they were tucked around his shaking body. Matthew wasn't sure if he was shaking from the chill of the room or from the sudden chill in his core, but he didn't care. He just wanted to be warm again, and the blankets offered him warmth.

Burying his face in the blankets and pillows, Matthew breathed deeply and tried to focus on how hurt his country was instead of how hurt his brother was.

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**A/N: I hope you enjoyed that little quarrel between Alfred and Matthew. I felt like it were about time they had one. My dear Matthew can only take so much, after all. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please don't forget to review and let me know what you think. :)**


	10. Chapter 10: Brotherly Bonding

**A/N: I got two anonymous reviews on the previous chapter, so I'm going to respond to them here:**

**America -Yes, yes, I'm sure poor Alfie appreciates your concern. He appreciates all of your attention, actually, so... Yeah. Here's that update you asked for xP**

**animelover12 - I'm so glad you've enjoyed the story so far :) I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much, if not more, than the previous ones.**

**Also, I'm guesstimating about two or three more chapters until the official end of this story. Kind of excited, but so upset. Anyway, enjoy. :)**

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Matthew slept through the rest of that night and late into the next morning. No one bothered to wake him; they all figured that Matthew would come out of the room on his own when he was ready. But that didn't stop Francis from trying at least several times to shake the defenseless Canadian to consciousness.

"We can't just leave him in there all alone, Arthur," Francis whined as Arthur dragged him away from the room for the fifth time that morning. "He'll get lonely. He'll think we're neglecting him. He'll get so depressed he won't ever come out!" Francis gasped in horror, his hands flying to his face. "I need mon bebe to come out!"

Arthur tightened his grip around the struggling Frenchman. "He'll be quite fine, I assure you," he grunted as he threw Francis onto the couch.

"No, no, you don't - " Francis started to move off the couch again, but Arthur shoved him back down. He kept his hands planted firmly on Francis's shoulders, keeping him seated on the couch.

"Matthew will be fine, Francis," Arthur says soothingly. "I promise you. Just let the lad sleep."

Alfred walked past the two nations towards the kitchen. "He's not asleep," he corrected as he disappeared through the doorway. Arthur and Francis turned their attention to Alfred, listening to him rummage through the refrigerator before walking back into the kitchen. His arms were filled with junk food and sodas.

"And you know this how?" Arthur asked skeptically, eying the food in Alfred's arms in distaste.

Alfred turned toward them, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "Because I just opened the door and he was staring at me. He looked all pitiful, like a kicked puppy. So I'm going to go talk to him. That's what he's waiting for."

Arthur and Francis stared at Alfred in shock as he entered Matthew's and Francis's bedroom. They shared an awkward look before glancing back at the now-closed bedroom door, their mouths working soundlessly.

Francis recovered first, his face drawing into a childish pout. "Since when has the moron known how to cheer up Matthew better than me?" He crossed his arms and huffed, the pout on his face growing.

Arthur released Francis's shoulders and stepped back, throwing a glance over his shoulder as he made his way slowly towards the bedroom. "They've always been close, you know that. Now hush before they hear you and get over here." With an impatient wave of his hand, Arthur signaled for Francis to join him at the door.

With a sneaky grin on his face, Francis joined Arthur, placing his ear against the door and holding his breath as he listened closely.

* * *

Alfred dumped the snacks and drinks on the foot of the bed, taking care not to drop the sodas on Matthew's foot. When all the snacks had been disposed of, Alfred took a step towards the head of the bed, where Matthew's face was covered by the thick blanket Francis had tucked him into the night before.

"Mattie...?" Alfred asked uncertainly. He leaned forward as if he could meet Matthew's eyes through the blanket. The blanket shifted, but it didn't reveal the golden-haired head underneath. "Mattie, can we talk?" Alfred sat precariously on the edge of the bed.

Matthew shifted over so Alfred could sit on the bed completely, taking the blanket with him. Alfred scooted onto the bed until he felt his lower back bump against Matthew's bent knees. Silence filled the bedroom for a few agonizing moments.

Then Matthew shifted and sat up, the thick blanket falling from his head and pooling around his hips. He rubbed at his eyes before leaning forward and touching Alfred's elbow lightly. "I'm sorry, Al," he whispered. His voice was small and quiet, but it seemed to echo in the near-empty, darkened room.

"Sorry for telling me the truth?" Alfred chuckled humurlessly, turning his head and meeting Matthew's gaze. "Arthur always used to say I needed to learn to appreciate when others told me the truth instead of getting mad about it. I mean, yeah, what you said hurt, and I got mad about it, but it was the truth, and I can see that now. You don't have to apologize." Alfred dropped his gaze, staring instead at where his hand was fisted into the sheets of the bed.

Matthew sat up the rest of the way, leaning his back against the cold cabin wall. He motioned for Alfred to sit beside him, waiting patiently until his brother had situated himself comfortably before speaking. "I don't know what came over me," he began. His voice was still quiet, almost hesitant, as if he were afraid of his own words. "I just - you know how involved in my country I am, Al, and you saying that we didn't need to listen to what happened to the rest of my country upset me. A lot."

"I'm sorry, Mattie," Alfred mumbled. "I didn't think - "

"You never think," Matthew chuckled, nudging Alfred gently with his elbow. "Hand me that soda and those chips, will you? I'm starving. I just played with everything Francis brought me to eat." He grabbed the offered soda and chips gratefully, ripping open the bag and peering inside, frowning at the lack of chips and over-abundance of air. "Your chips never cease to disappoint me, Al," Matthew joked as he grabbed a few chips from the bag.

Alfred chuckled and opened his own bag, taking a drink from another soda bottle. "They disappoint everyone." He leaned into Matthew and rubbed their shoulders together playfully. "So... am I forgiven?" He turned his kicked-puppy-dog expression up full blast and batted his eyelashes at his brother.

Matthew stared at Alfred for a few silent moments before repeating Alfred's question. "Am _I _forgiven?"

Alfred and Matthew stared at each other, then they both broke out into wide grins. "Yeah dude, you're forgiven. Now let's dig in before Arthur hears the bags and decides he wants to ruin our brother time." With a cackle, Alfred continued eating his chips, digging his elbow lightly into Matthew's ribcage to encourage him.

"You're lucky I'm hungry, Alfred F. Jones, or I wouldn't even be considering putting this junk in my mouth," Matthew joked, pulling a handful of chips out of his bag.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever man. Just eat your stupid chips before I decide I don't like you." Alfred burped and ruffled Matthew's hair, leaving behind chip crumbs and grease in the Canadian's blonde locks.

Matthew squealed in disgust and slapped Alfred's hand away. "You really do need to learn some manners! Maybe that's what we can do while we're waiting for the snow to be cleared away - teach you some manners."

"I'd like to see you try, Williams." Alfred met Matthew's gaze once more, a challenging glint in his eyes. With a devilish smirk, he brought the soda bottle to his lips, finished off what was left, and belched so loud his ears rang.

* * *

On the other side of the bedroom door, Arthur and Francis cringed as they made their way back to the couch. Once they were seated, the two European nations shared a desperate glance.

"They're both so disgusting when they're getting along," Arthur observed.

Francis cocked his eyebrow and shrugged. "It's all because of your barbarian. Matthew is such an impressionable child. He'll go along with anything Alfred wants him to do. Although he was right about one thing - it is about time we taught young Alfred some manners."

Arthur and Francis shared another, determined glance, nodded once, and began their plans.

* * *

**A/N: I had a lot of fun writing the bonding scene between Alfred and Matthew. That's always how I pictured they'd interact when they were "bonding" or making up after a fight. Good old disgusting boy habits xD Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please don't forget to review and let me know what you think. :)**


	11. Chapter 11: Home

**A/N: This is the last chapter of the story, I'm sad to say. Originally, I had planned for there to be one more chapter, but I ended up just combining them. If I had left them to be their own chapters, they would have been extremely short, and I know how disappointing that is. So, here is the last chapter, and thank you all for reading, reviewing , favoriting, and following this story. I honestly had no idea it would get this far, and while I'm surprised, I'm also very pleased. You all encouraged me to actually start working on an original story, and I started it in the middle of this chapter, which is part of the reason why it took me so long to get this posted**

**Anyway, I figured I would answer one last anonymous review, since it is the last chapter, and that response is below:**

**Marzue: I actually didn't know that. The only time I've heard soda be called pop was in older books, but that's something that I'll have to keep in mind for next time. Thank you for pointing that out, and I hope it didn't bother you so much as to distract from the story. I'm glad you took the time to read the story and review, and I'm glad you liked it. :)**

**And now you can continue on to the final chapter of this story. I'm so sorry this author's note was so long, but there was a lot that needed to be said. Without further ado, I present to you the final chapter. I hope you enjoy. :)**

* * *

Arthur and Francis were waiting for Alfred when he and Matthew exited the bedroom. A chair had been brought in from the kitchen and was sitting innocently in the center of the living room. The two older, European nations were standing behind the chair, their arms crossed and their expressions stern.

Alfred immediately knew something was up. "Uh... what's up, guys?" He asked, chuckling nervously as he approached the center of the room.

Arthur ignored his question, pointing to the chair in front of him instead. "Sit," he commanded. His eyebrows were stitched together above the bridge of his nose, his mouth screwed up in a scowl.

Alfred scowled back, stopping just in front of the chair. He turned his sour expression to the piece of furniture before him. "Why?" He asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

Francis rolled his eyes and uncrossed his arms. Stepping around the chair, he stood behind Alfred and placed his hands on the American's shoulders. With less effort than he thought he'd need, Francis spun Alfred around and shoved him into the chair, holding onto his shoulders for a little longer to make sure he stayed seated. "Sit," Francis commanded, copying Arthur's tone of voice from earlier.

Alfred crossed his arms and pouted, looking off to the side. "I'm not a dog..." He grumbled, but he stayed sitting when Francis released his shoulders.

Matthew glanced between the European nations, confused. "What _are _you guys doing...?" He eyed the chair suspiciously, much like Alfred had only moments before.

Francis spun around, gesturing wildly with his hands towards Alfred. "We are going to teach young Alfred here some manners. So maybe when this horrid 'vacation' is over, he may be able to pick up a date." Francis shot a disappointed look Alfred's way, clucking his tongue and shaking his head.

"I'll have you know," Alfred began angrily, standing up from the chair and whirling to face Francis and Arthur, "that I can get a date whenever I want! And in fact, a lot of people find me to be quite charming just how I am. So you can stop now. This is stupid." He crossed his arms and glared at the two nations before him.

Arthur and Francis exchanged a look. "Alfred, dear boy," Arthur said, stepping forward and clasping his hands in front of himself. "Yelling and insulting is not how a gentleman should act. It is quite unbecoming."

"I'm not a gentleman. I'm American." Alfred placed his hands on his hips, screwing up his face and giving Arthur and Francis dangerous looks.

Arthur's and Francis's stern expressions fell, replaced with looks of astonishment. "He just..." Arthur began, cocking his head to the side and furrowing his eyebrows.

"… Insulted himself?" Francis finished, his body language mimicking that of Arthur.

Matthew sighed, leaning to the side to glance at Francis and Arthur, who were blocked by the hulking American. "He doesn't believe it's an insult, you guys," he explained. Matthew's eyes flickered to Alfred, who was standing with his arms out to his sides, waiting for a snarky remark from either of the two nations before him.

The European nations exchanged another look before shaking their heads and staring at Alfred, who screwed up his face in an angry pout. "Are we done yet?" He asked impatiently, throwing his arms out farther from his sides.

Arthur opened his mouth and closed It, at a loss for words.

"Where's that radio thing?" Alfred asked abruptly, turning his back to Arthur and Francis and searching for the small wooden contraption. He spun around a couple times, searching on the ground and shelves for the radio.

"Aren't you the one who moved it?" Arthur asked, cocking his head in confusion and raising an eyebrow.

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Well yeah, duh. But I forgot where I put it. And besides, I figured you would have moved it after I put it somewhere anyway, because you always do things like that." He stopped spinning and stood up straight, watching Arthur as he turned his head to search for the radio.

"It's over by the window, on top of the bookshelf." Arthur motioned to the bookshelf with his chin, turning back to the couch and sinking down.

Alfred walked over to the window, shot a glare at all the snow outside, and then snatched the radio off the bookshelf. He fiddled with the radio as he walked back to the couch, turning the nobs until he found the same station they were listening to last night. When Alfred got to the couch, he sat down beside Arthur and leaned forward, placing the radio in the center of the coffee table.

Matthew, Arthur, and Francis gave him curious looks. When Alfred glanced up, he caught Matthew's eye and nodded his head toward the empty seat beside him. "I said I was sorry, but I'm beginning to think that doesn't always fix things."

With a small, grateful smile, Matthew closed the distance between him and the couch and sat beside his brother. He bumped his shoulder against Alfred's and ducked his head, his cheeks heating up with a blush. "Thanks, Al. You don't have to sit here and listen with me if you don't want. I know how boring all this is to you." His voice sounded a little sad by the end of his sentence.

Forcing a smile, Alfred threw his arm over his smaller-framed brother. "Nah, I think I'm gonna sit here and listen with you. It might not be the most entertaining thing to do, but it's more fun than anything else I could be doing. Arthur won't play anymore games with me." He pouted, shooting his confused ex-caretaker a puppy-dog expression before turning his attention back to Matthew.

Arthur straightened up even further in his seat, turning his head to look Alfred in the face. The confused expression he wore grew deeper by the second as Alfred and Matthew leaned intently closer to the small radio spouting out staticy news from the center of the coffee table. He shared a glance with Francis, who had taken a seat on the other side of Matthew, his eyebrows raised so far up his forehead they almost blended in with his hair.

Suddenly, Matthew jumped up from the couch, clutching Alfred's arm tightly and dragging him to his feet as well. He cried out in joy and pulled the large American into a tight hug.

"Good news, I presume?" Arthur asked as he, too, stood. Matthew released Alfred and beamed at Arthur over his shoulder.

"The storm wasn't as bad as everyone thought it was. There was a lot of snow, sure, but none of it really stuck. It was all just fluff, pretty much. And there wasn't much damage done. Clean up was easy. They cleared out the airports and major highways first, and now they're working on clearing out the rest of the snow off the roads," Matthew gushed, seemingly in one breath. He inhaled sharply when he finished speaking, smile widening as watched the news register on Arthur's face.

Francis wasn't as excited as everyone else to hear the good news. "Okay, that's all fine and dandy, but when can we go home? There's still the matter of clearing a pathway for us to get to the road, and do we even know if your public transportation is up and running yet?" He placed his hands on his hips and raised one perfectly-trimmed eyebrow in skepticism.

Matthew gave him a "duh" looks and flicked his hand out, dismissing Francis's concerns. "Alfred can clear out a path," Matthew explained, "from the cabin to the road. And then, since you probably don't want to wait for the bus, I can call a taxi. Then we'll be taken to the airport and we can all go home." Matthew shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

"Why didn't you plan this trip?" Arthur chuckled, walking towards the room he shared with Alfred.

Alfred crossed his arms over his chest, following Arthur towards the room. "Hey! I did a good job planning this thing!"

"Sure you did, love. Sure you did."

* * *

It took three hours for Alfred to clear enough snow away to form an adequate path. By the time he trudged back inside the cabin, he was covered from head to foot in loose snow. His cheeks were a rosy red from the cold and the wind, and snowflakes clung to his lashes and the hair that stuck out from his hat. He dropped the snow shovel that Matthew had found in the storage room, dropped his soaking wet snow coat from his shoulders, and toed out of his boots.

Arthur exited their bedroom then, tugging a full suitcase behind him. He scowled at the mess Alfred had made by the door, but refrained from scolding him. He dropped the suitcase beside the couch, adding to the pile that had already begun to form. There were four suitcases there, and two of them belonged to Alfred. Cocking his head to the side, Alfred wondered aloud where Matthew's suitcase was.

"He was finished packing his first, but Francis threw a fit because he 'didn't pack it right,' right he made Matthew unpack everything and do it the right way," Arthur explained, just as Matthew trudged from the room he shared with Francis. A large pout had taken up residence on his face, and his eyes glinted angrily. Francis followed behind Matthew, clucking his tongue at the Canadian's slouched form.

"You shouldn't slouch like that, mon cher," Francis scolded softly from where he hovered over Matthew's shoulder. "You'll end up like Alfred, with a permanent hump because you're too lazy to sit and stand up straight."

Alfred scowled. "I don't have a hump..." He mumbled, his scowl morphing into a dejected pout. "Right, Arthur?"

Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes, a small smile forming on his lips. "No, Alfred dear. You do not have a hump." He turned to Francis just as Alfred shot a victorious glance Francis's way, sticking his tongue out childishly.

Rolling his eyes, Matthew straightened up and rolled his shoulders. "I just want to go home. The cab will be here in about fifteen minutes, so Alfred you should really put your boots and coat back on."

Alfred pouted and grumbled, but did as he was told. "Why are you so eager to get home, Mattie? Technically, you're already here." He glanced at his brother, who had sat down on the couch to lace up his snow boots.

Matthew stood and stretched. "Actually, Al, I'm not. By 'home,' I mean my house in Quebec, not some lonely cabin in the middle of nowhere somewhere in my country."

"Why Quebec?" Alfred began, placing his hands on his hips and leaning forward. "Why not - ?"

Arthur placed his hand on Alfred's shoulder, silencing him. "Let's not be annoying, Alfred dear," he reprimanded softly. He released Alfred's shoulder and picked up his suitcase. "We should be heading down to the road now. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can get home."

As the quartet left the cabin, a silence fell over them. Eventually, over halfway to the road, Alfred broke the silence. "You guys did have fun, though... right? And you all feel a little closer to each other? Because that was the most important part of this whole thing. I wanted a vacation where we could get along and spend some time together..." He looked over his shoulder at the three nations behind him, fighting back the hurt that threatened to twist his lips and cloud his eyes.

Matthew blinked. "Of course we did, Al. We might not have gotten along the whole time, but we had fun, right Francis? Arthur?"

The European nations nodded their heads, but remained silent.

"See, Al? Everyone had fun. But maybe we should forget about anymore vacations for a little while, okay?"

Alfred shrugged, instead focusing on the road that was now almost within leaping distance and the cab that was awaiting the quartet. With a joyful shout, Alfred called dibs on the window seat and raced forward, tossing his two suitcases into the trunk and diving for the seat behind the driver.

With a roll of their eyes, the other three nations followed behind him.

* * *

**A/N: I know, I know, the ending was weak. But it was a happy one. :) That counts for something, right? Anyway, I'm sorry if this seemed rushed, but I was actually really excited to get this chapter out to wrap up the story. Again, I'm really happy about how far this went, and I love how many supporters this story had gotten throughout its short, short life. A big thank you to all of you, and I hope you read and enjoy my other stories as well. Thank you and have a good night/day. Leave a review and tell me what you thought of the chapter/story as a whole, okay? You're all amazing! ;D**


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